


Lyra's Favourite Toys

by Alasdair_you, Macaria_Czol



Series: Random Tales from Coria [5]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Demisexuality, F/M, Light Bondage, Masturbation, Prostitution, Teasing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-01-15 04:11:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12313515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alasdair_you/pseuds/Alasdair_you, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macaria_Czol/pseuds/Macaria_Czol
Summary: Lyra loves it when her handler comes to visit, their talks are always extremely entertaining. Mainly because, they usually end with one of the most gorgeous men, she has ever met shackled to her bed.Such a shame that Asher Charlemange seems to have the oddest views on love, but hey. They are still great friends. Luckily, there are numerous other people in Lyra's life, and she does consider them all her's.





	1. My favourite toy

**Author's Note:**

> So this is just a little bit more of Lyra, who is apparently an interesting character. Chapter 1 of this piece is by Alasdair_you, she writes awesome stories and I write my own awkward bits to keep her entertained. Asher works for Sebastian who is Lyra's boss. 
> 
> Lyra and Asher have known each other for quite a while and they have a interesting relationship. This is a bit of view into that and other relationships that she has

Asher hated being the middleman. It was an uncomfortable position, one that he wasn’t accustomed to being in, but when the boss gave orders, he followed. The alternative was probably unpleasant, though he’d never pushed Sebastian’s buttons far enough to find out. He wasn’t about to start, so he’d made his way through the city in the uniform black scaled armor of the Inquisitors, a mask pulled low over his face. It was fashioned to look like a lion, though Sebastian still wore the silver snake instead.

The Inquisitor side-stepped a cart full of apples bound for the market district, only nearly missing being run down by a grumpy horse and a man shouting in the rough, guttural tones of the north. Something about rain…the sky above them was indeed the color of slate and boiling with dark clouds threatening the typical mid-afternoon Corian rainstorm. It would be a brief but welcome respite from the heat, not that the heat really bothered him. Asher Charlemagne had been born and raised in Coryth. The filth of the city was in his blood, gritty and raw and lacking all of the lavish décor that he was surrounded by so frequently as of late. The Keep was a glittering beacon in a city that was half sex and hedonism and half cesspit and sewage. 

He was from the latter section. Sebastian had plucked him from among the grime on the docks, a grunt worker in one of Coryth’s shipyards, and called him a rare gem lost in gravel. He’d been with the Brightons ever since.

The sky opened up not a moment later and the merchant cursed loudly at the boy with him, who was trying to heave the horse forward but the damn thing seemed hell bent on not moving. He continued past them, his boots stomping through the beginnings of puddles as warm, heavy rain started pouring from the skies. He tugged his hood a little bit closer to his face, grateful that a majority of the citizens in Coryth gave anyone wearing the Inquisitor’s mask a wide berth. He wanted to reach his destination, collect the information he’d been ordered to collect, and get on with the assignment. He’d never been a fan of the assassination contracts, but Sebastian had said that tension in the north was reaching a point of no return. One of the northern lords in the city had to be ‘dealt with.’

He ducked around a corner and into a dark doorway, draped in silk ribbons and clinking glass beads. He could hear the sound of soft music from beyond the door and a chorus of voices, giggling and speaking in a variety of languages. 

Asher twisted the door knob and stepped inside. 

The Madam of the Silk House kept the windows shuttered ‘to keep it cool.’ It did that, of course, but it also kept prying eyes away from an establishment owned silently by the Grand Inquisitor. The boys on the street would call it a high-class cat house, but Asher liked to think of it as a bird house. Every man and woman that worked inside the walls reported to the Madam or to the Inquisitor stationed there, whispering their secrets so that they could be carried off to the rookery at the Keep.

To the outsider, it was a brothel. The room was lined in wide benches that were draped in silks, pillows, and scantily clad bodies engaged in a myriad of ‘mild’ sex acts. Heavy petting, kissing, rubbing—it would have been dreadfully uncomfortable for anyone else, which was why he always ended up answering to the Silk House when the information they had was necessary for a contract in progress. 

The floors were palm wood, warm and polished to a shine, and the walls were covered in dark paper, inlaid with gold and covered with expensive art depicting some utterly debasing things. The chandeliers were sporting the same brightly colored silk ribbons, braided into elaborate designs near the top and left to hang loose from the bottom, swaying lightly when the door snapped shut behind him.

Asher peeled his mask back and one of the girls immediately plastered herself to his side. “Inquisitor,” she purred. “Our services are on the house for Masks, you know.”

He blinked at her, vision swimming into focus in the dimly lit building. She was pretty enough. Maybe a Halfling. Her eyes were bleached out, but she had a curtain of Corian black hair and red painted lips in the perfect print of a kiss. She was a wearing a corset, stockings, and some lace…thing that left very little to the imagination. He ignored that and his disinterest only seemed to spur her forward. Her fingers made a line down the front laces of his leather gear. “Where is Madam Evangeline?” he finally asked, catching her hand and extricating himself from her grasp.

The girl pouted, her brows drawn together miserably. “With a client,” she informed him, her voice taking on a whining, childlike tone. “Lyra is upstairs in her usual room though. If Sebastian sent you, she has what you’re here for.”

Asher ground his teeth. He’d have much preferred dealing with Evangeline Joubert. The flirting was obnoxious and unnecessary, but it was never overwhelming. She just pawed at him a bit, passed him the information, and let him leave without much conversation.

Lyra Palm…was decidedly different.

He made a huffing noise and started for the Cinderella staircase that led to the upper floor. He had to dodge two more prostitutes on the way up, one male and one female, and a set of identical twins that offered to change his life. Lyra liked to keep her room at the very back, closest to the ladder on the exterior wall of the building, so that she could climb onto the roof with Sebastian’s bird. 

An actual bird, to be clear. A Corian valley falcon, if he recalled, snow white. 

Asher knocked twice and then twisted the handle, only to find it was locked. He had to wait another ten seconds before the door swung open just slightly, allowing him to step into the room. 

Lyra had her oil lamps burning and the room was brighter than the rest of the place—all oak and mother of pearl. The walls were covered in tapestries that probably cost more than his yearly salary, all of them displaying different stages of the Lierian rite. The bed was a mountain of silk pillows, all red or black, heaped up near the top. A variety of toys lay near them—marble phalluses, heavy glass plugs, leather restraints, a riding crop, a flogger—

Asher cleared his throat and let the door click shut. Lyra herself was near her dresser, examining perfectly painted, glossy pink lips. She was wearing black and red lace, just a bustier and a scrap of fabric that barely covered anything between her thighs and was mostly see-through anyway. It was a vivid contrast to her skin, which was as white as bone. She was the only full-blooded Lierian working at the Silk House, which made her an expensive commodity—like an exotic pet.

Lyra bent forward, sliding a stocking up her long, smooth leg to her thigh. She let it snap against her skin and then pulled the buckle of her garter down, clipping it in place before she faced him. “Asher Charlemagne,” she purred. “The biggest waste of a pretty face in all of Coryth.”

He rolled his eyes, taking a seat at her vanity when she gestured to it. “I have a job to finish, Lyra,” he reminded her, a polite curtness to his tone. Lyra only looked over her shoulder, flaxen curls bouncing down her back as she unpinned them, and raised an eyebrow.

“But I do so love our chats, Charlie.”

“Asher,” he corrected. “I told you. You can call me Asher. Sebastian only calls me Charlie because—“

She waved a hand dismissively. “I know, I know.” Her fingers dug through her dresser and he heard her pop the false bottom from one of the drawers, withdrawing a scrap of paper. She dropped it unceremoniously on the top of the furniture and then sauntered toward him, her heels a dulled click against the finely embroidered carpet of her suite. “Want to play a game, Asher?”

“Not particularly, no.” She fixed him with a look of blatant disapproval and he amended the statement quickly. “Fine, Lyra. I’ll play a game.”

Lyra Palm thought of him as a challenge. He was a mountain that nobody had reached the summit of and she was determined to be the first to plant her flag…to conquer what had been deemed unconquerable. She was barking up the wrong tree, which he’d told her more than a dozen times, but it hadn’t stopped her from trying.

Grinning, Lyra reached back and unsnapped the bustier, letting the straps slide from her shoulders so that she was bare from the waist up. She deposited the scrap of lace at his feet and licked her lips, closing the distance between them so that she could slide into his lap, straddled across his thighs. He had to put his hands on the small of her back, if only to keep her from toppling backward and landing in an unpleasant heap on her carpet. 

She leaned in, unlacing the guard on his chest so that she could dip her fingers into his clothes and run her hands over the smooth, hard planes of his abdomen. Asher was still, only dimly aware of the lemon and lavender smell of her hair falling over his face and the warm weight of her across his lap. She left a trail of kisses from his throat to his ear, though she never dared to go near his mouth. In the beginning of their bizarre working relationship, Asher had set his mouth as a hard limit. It was the only limit that Lyra listened to. “You’re such a pretty boy,” she purred against his ear.

“So you’ve said.”

“So everyone says,” she corrected and he could feel her lips slide into a smile against the skin of his cheek. “Do you know how much money you could make, Asher? There are nobles that come in here that would love to feel you over them, men and women both. Is that the problem? I can bring a boy up.”

Asher cleared his throat, his heart even and steady, his breathing going shallow only because of the added weight of her leaning on his chest. “Definitely not into boys,” he managed lowly. 

Lyra huffed. “You aren’t playing.”

He had to exert a decent level of self-control to keep himself from rolling his eyes, but he obliged her game anyway and ran his hands over her back. He palmed the smooth, warm skin that stretched over her spine and let his fingers slide to her front, grazing over soft, round breasts. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate how beautiful and utterly exotic Lyra was. He did. She was, by far, the most attractive individual on Sebastian’s payroll and the blatant sexuality of her probably made that even more palpable for anyone else. Asher, however, was not everyone else. 

He did like the soft rush of breath that left her lips when he touched her, like she actually enjoyed him and he was more than just another trick to turn. He liked that she seemed to think that she possessed him for the brief moments he was in her room. Their little games had gone quite far before—he’d been shackled to her bed on more than one occasion—but it was all a challenge for her and, in turn, it had become a challenge for him.

Albeit, it was one he didn’t have to work for.

“These nobles come in sometimes,” she murmured, still rocking her hips against his, breathless and whimpering between her words. “And I can tell they’re faking…that they really want me to call one of the boys up or bend them over the bed with a toy, but they tough it out. They sweat and they moan and they play out their fantasies…” She caught his ear between her teeth and he felt his jaw clench, remaining tight until she released her hold. “You’re different.”

“Because I don’t have sex.”

“Because you don’t even get hard.” She huffed then, her fingers tight in his hair and he felt her shudder against him, wet beneath the lace between her legs. “You don’t even want to touch me.”

“That’s not entirely true,” he argued weakly. It was mostly true. This did nothing for him except make him physically hot, like he was roasting inside his own clothes. “I recognize beauty when I see it and I’m more than happy to play your game. Besides, Lyra, what am I to you but another toy in your arsenal?”

She giggled, but it lacked any sense of real mirth, which only served to prove his point. He was another item in her toybox and it should have bothered him. He should have felt like she was using him (because she was) and he should have felt a little bit dirty about it. Instead, he took a marginal amount of comfort in her closeness. He liked to feel possessed for the brief time they were together. He liked the coddling, the orders, the way she sometimes nuzzled into his neck just before her teeth sank into his skin. Lyra made him feel real for a few hours, made him feel like more than he was.

“You’re an enigma,” she pointed out and he felt her teeth slide along his throat while her hands seized his wrists. She applied pressure, silently encouraging him to engage more and he let his palms rest on her hips, digging into the bones there so as to leave bruises and push her down harder into his lap. “Tell me again what you’re waiting for.”

“I’ve already told you.”

“I like the story.”

That was bullshit if he ever heard it. Lyra just liked to hear it again to see if she was missing part of the puzzle, to see if she could garner some previously unnoticed fact. There was nothing to discover, but he obliged her frivolous request anyway because maybe in some deep, dark part of her that she didn’t let anyone see, she did like the idea of it. 

Asher cleared his throat again, tipping his head to allow her access to his pulse while she sucked the skin there, humming happily. He could feel her heart against his chest, a rapid fire beat while her rocking motion became more erratic. “I want to love someone,” he told her quietly and felt her chuckle at the very idea of it. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t disbelief. It was just her way of silently referring to him as adorable. If her mouth hadn’t been otherwise occupied, she’d have said the words and patted his cheek when she did it. “I just…don’t see sex as necessary or just…just an act. I want it to mean something.”

“You’re such an old soul, Asher.” That was mocking. He could tell because she tugged his head back with a fistful of his hair when she did it and kissed dangerously close to his mouth. “So sweet. So pretty.” She climbed gracefully to her feet, pressing her fingers to the top of his head to keep him from standing. Asher rolled his eyes and stayed on the chair, watching her move to the bed and collect a set of leather restraints.

Lyra clicked her tongue and he moved his hands behind his back, allowing her to bind them there at his waist. She pulled on the chain between them once, kissed his cheek as she stood, and resumed her position on top of him. “I like you more like this,” she told him, her voice breathy and warm against the side of his face. 

“Of course, you do. Now you can just rut against me like the animal you are.”

She laughed, but it was exactly what she did. 

He’d been told, over the course of his life, that he should love this sort of attention. He should have craved it. He should have been grateful that a creature such as her wanted him shackled in her bedroom. He was grateful for the attention, something he hadn’t gotten much of when he was a boy. He craved approval from her, which was why he engaged in the game anyway. To please her, to stay on her good side, to try to feel some sort of normal.

When the normal never happened, he’d sought answers briefly and found a small collection of people uninterested in sex as a whole and they’d told him that he should have been repulsed by this sort of behavior.

But he wasn’t repulsed. He wanted it. He just…wanted more, too.

Lyra made a sharp gasping noise, grinding hard into his lap while her fingers curled into claws at the back of his neck. She moaned against him, slipping into her native tongue while her body twisted and shuddered in his lap. He squirmed under her, providing her the friction she needed to finally cry his name and come apart, shuddering through completion while her teeth sank into the skin of his shoulder. The bite stung and Asher felt momentarily dizzy and breathless, like he’d shared in her finish without ever feeling remotely turned on. For a moment, she was content to stay in his lap, boneless and collapsed against him while he listened to her frantic heartbeat and felt the muscles in her abdomen and her thighs twitch and shiver.

He liked this part the best…this momentary vulnerability that hung between them and he let his head sink to her shoulder. She carded her fingers through his hair, cradling him there by the back of his neck, her hips still moving ever so slightly as she wound down. He liked the feel of her, hot, breathless, and sated. He liked knowing that she got there with him, specifically. He liked knowing that she was pleased with the outcome.

“Good boy,” she whispered against his ear and he felt the gloss on her lips stick to his skin when she kissed his temple and got to her feet, unsteady at first, but quickly reclaiming her typical grace. 

And he relished in the mocking praise, a shiver running down his spine as her heels clicked over the floor again. Those two words were the real reason he played the game at all. The ridiculous euphoria that rose in his chest when she said them, like he’d actually accomplished something…it was humiliating and delicious and he practically fucking lived for it when he was sent to the Silk House. 

Lyra knew it. She glanced back over her shoulder and collected the scrap of paper she’d had earlier. “Praise whore,” she teased and Asher fixed her with a narrowed glare. She slipped the paper into the slim lace band of her panties and reached for him, gently tapping his cheek with her open palm. “Don’t be sullen, Asher. Quiet obedience suits you more.”

“Are you going to let me out or should I start picking the locks?”

Lyra arched an eyebrow, a grin playing over her lips. “You need this paper, don’t you?”

He scowled and she tapped his cheek again. It prompted an answer. “Yes.”

“Good boy.”

He shivered again and felt his cheeks turn warm, heat pooling in his stomach. This always happened, but it wouldn’t result in anything later until he indulged in his own version of the fantasy…the version where Lyra actually cared for him as more than a toned body to rub herself off on. 

The Lierian crooked a finger and beckoned him. “Come take it then. You’re not strapped to the chair.” 

Asher squirmed to his feet, awkward and off balance without his arms, and set about to sliding the metal tools from his wrists so that he could pick the lock. It was one of the first tricks Sebastian taught any of his Inquisitors and one that Asher had learned long before he’d ever worn the mask. It was just part of street survival. 

Lyra cocked her head, obviously aware of what he was doing. “Take it with your teeth, Asher.” She tapped the paper at her hip and he returned to scowling but the pout that she plastered on got him on his knees.

“Two can play this game, you know?” he told her, scrabbling forward on his knees, his fingers fumbling blindly with the locks. He reached her without planting his face in the carpet and she waited, looking down at him like she expected him to just snatch the paper. Instead, he pressed his mouth to the inside of her thigh and listened to the sharp intake of breath above him while he planted lines of hot, wet kisses up to the apex of her thighs and the damp lace that smelled of lavender and sex. He licked over it once and heard Lyra take a long, trembling breath above him and he made to do it again but diverted his path at the last moment, snatched the paper with his teeth, and felt his hands pop free behind his back.

The Inquisitor hopped easily to his feet, took the paper from his mouth, and grinned while she stared at him, lips parted and eyes wide like what had just happened was the last thing that she’d expected. He’d done more than that, of course, but he’d been shackled to her bed at the time and without much of a choice regarding the actions of his tongue when she was sitting on his face. 

This was a new dynamic.

“Very impressive,” Lyra laughed, taking a step back, finally catching up with herself. “Good boy.”

Asher ignored the ever growing flush of his face and kissed her cheek. “I’ll think about you later.”

“And I you, handsome.”


	2. Lost Toys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is set a few months after Lyra's encounter with Asher. It's not explicit and has the added tag of minor character death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyra is very possessive, losing her things doesn't leave her in the best of moods.

She was going to kill someone, she didn’t know exactly who yet, but her fingers practically ached to wrap around the hilt of her dagger and bury the blade into some bastard’s chest. Not that she would, Lyra acknowledged silently, as she reached up and adjusted the lion mask that she wore. 

It was a rare sight to see the Lierian decked out in her Inquisitor gear as opposed to her red silk robe. But today was an exception in many ways, Lyra thought seethingly as she strode down the street, everyone giving her a wide berth as they stared in barely concealed fear at her black uniform and the mask that concealed her delicate features. A smart move, because though she didn’t regard herself as a killer, the girl felt that there was a lot of wisdom in fearing a weapon even when it wasn’t in use. 

Fear was a healthy thing, it kept people alive. And the lack of it was the reason why so many died young. The foolhardiness of youth, oh how she didn’t miss it at all. She had learnt exactly how vulnerable she was far too many years ago. 

Gritting her teeth, she skirted around the edge of the Janvier residence. Stealthy ducking down a side street, Lyra found herself praying to gods that she didn’t believe in that Janvier would be too busy dealing with his grief to notice her arrival. Today was not the best time to explain to her colleague that she had been sleeping with his teenage son. 

Glancing around her cautiously, Lyra approached the wall of the Janvier house. Finding a small foothold, the girl climbed up swiftly. Pausing a shuttered window, she pried it open with long practised skill and slipped into the house. The sight that greeted her, made Lyra’s breath catch in her throat. 

Laid out on the bed was Magnus Janvier. His face frozen in a mask of both anguish and peace. Just sixteen years old and gone from the world, it was far to cruel. Pushing up her mask, Lyra stepped towards the body on the bed.

She remembered the day that she first met Magnus Janvier. He had been nothing but swagger and recklessness as he’d stepped into her room at the Silk House. So cock sure of himself that she’d known within a second of meeting him that she would not their encounter end until he was begging her for mercy. 

He hadn’t begged though, but he had cried a bit when he’d realised that he couldn’t handle her. A sad smile hovered on the corners of her lips as she sat down on the edge of his bed, her hand creeping closer to rest on his. 

Overwhelming was how he had described her at the end of it, his face flushed and his eyes sparkling. And then he had laughed wickedly and promised to see her again. Which Magnus had done, over and over again.

He’d become one of her her toys, as she saw them. Those few individuals that frequented her life, whom she couldn’t help but think of as hers. Sebastian had lectured her about her possessiveness when she had first been trained at as an Inquisitor, but it hadn’t accomplished anything. It was just ingrained in her, some unyielding part of her personality that made her look at something or someone and simply think mine. 

Mine, Lyra thought soberly as she squeezed Magnus’ lifeless fingers, and cursed the bastards that had broken him. They would pay, no one hurt what belonged to her. She wasn’t capable of love. Not the kind that Asher craved so desperately, but she cared in her own way and she didn’t like it when things changed without her permission. 

The Lierian had known the moment she heard of Magnus’ state, that she’d lost him. No one could recover from such injuries, and thought of her vicious, reckless boy trapped in a bed forever had actually brought tears to her eyes. 

She’d known that she would be paying him one last visit, had planned to say goodbye before letting go of him. Magnus wouldn’t have been able to live a half life, no matter how much she wanted him to. However, she hadn’t gotten the chance to say goodbye. By the time dawn had come, Magnus Janvier was dead and Asher Charlemagne had left the continent along with the royal bastard, Niel Novak. 

Grinding her teeth, Lyra slowly let go of Magnus.

“I will see you in your next life Magnus, and I promise I will teach you a lesson for leaving me too soon.” She vowed softly as she leaned in and placed a chaste kiss on his cool forehead. Soon they would be coming to collect his body to prepare it for a funeral, so lingering was not an option. 

Getting up quietly, she lost no time in climbing out Magnus’ window. Reaching up and pulling herself up onto the roof, she paused only to push the shutters closed again. It would do no good for Janvier to realise that someone had been in his son’s room. 

Sitting silently on the roof, Lyra found herself unable to leave. She wasn’t ready for everything to be over and so she stayed, listening to the faint sounds of the house that she perched was on. 

No one would tell her what had happened. All she had received was a note from Sebastian informing her that Asher had left for Immara and would no longer be her handler. After that had come a few whispers from the Royal Keep saying something had happened to the king’s bastard. 

She had some ideas as to what had happened though, even if there was no confirmation. Lyra knew that she didn’t need confirmation though, she had all the confirmation she needed simply by knowing her toys.  
Magnus had been the one to introduce her to Niel. He’d arrived at the Silk House one day with the quadroon in tow and an outrageous suggestion on his tongue. Lyra put her fist over her mouth to stop the laugh from escaping her. 

Niel Novak was even more off limits than Magnus really. Something that she had known all too well, even as she’d tied him to her bed and ridden him hard. Sebastian had been furious when he had learnt that she’d been in a threesome with his ‘stepson’. But she’d happily taken her punishment, because there’d been no way for her to deny Magnus’ request that she spend the night with both of them. 

Lyra had recognised the look in Magnus’ eyes when he glanced at the stripped boy and she’d found that she couldn’t bring herself to deny her boy a chance to be with the person he loved. She’d gotten into trouble a few more times for her dalliances with Magnus and Niel, but she hadn’t regretted any of it. 

Until now. 

Now as she sat alone with one lover dead, another now a killer and the last gone without any chance of returning, Lyra regretted everything. She regretted that she had allowed herself to care, because now all she could feel was pain as she thought of them. 

Pain and anger. 

If Asher Charlemagne appeared in front of her, she wouldn’t have the strength to stop herself from killing him. No, not kill him. Kiss him. She’d kiss him. It would be vicious, her lips slanted mercilessly over his as she stole his first kiss and destroyed everything they had together. He would probably try to kill her once it was over, but she wouldn’t care. Everything had already changed, so there was no point in trying to salvage anything that was left. 

Her toys were gone and she couldn’t get them back now. Maybe though, it would be a good thing. Maybe Niel would learn to be stronger now that he’d been reforged from blood and Asher could find the love he needed now that he was free from his family. And Magnus…

A broken cry left her, an unwilling tear running down her cheek without permission. 

And Magnus would be reborn and start a new life, while she carried on with her old one, reminding herself daily that she really did need to stop caring for every lost soul that crossed her path. 

Not that she would, Lyra thought grimly, as she finally stood up and slowly picked her way across the roof, determined to get back to the brothel as quickly as humanly possible. Because even as she hated it, she loved it. 

She loved having her toys and she needed to take care of them, even when it did cause her to hurt. They gave her purpose, and she lived for that purpose. No matter how angry she was that she’d now have to give her toys away and let other people love and play with them.


	3. Self pity does nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead. Just a bit swamped by RL, so here is a relatively small chapter that sets Lyra up for her next mission.

Grief is an annoying emotion, one that Lyra had observed in many different forms over the years. And had, much to her own dismay, felt far too many times herself. Sometimes, she wished that she’d mastered the art of being emotionless. Then she remembered what a psychopath Madalena Brighton was and she found herself glad that she did know how to actually...feel. Sebastian's daughter never failed to make Lyra’s skin crawl even if it was just for a split second. The girl just completely failed to understand how humans worked.

Still it had been two weeks since Magnus’ death and Asher’s departure with Niel, and honestly Lyra was beginning to loathe the human condition. She hated that her chest ached whenever some young noble arrived in the brothel, Magnus flashing through her mind. She hated that she still expected Asher to turn up midweek for a status report. And she really hated that she was attempting to deal with all her grief by drowning in a bottle of wine.

It was self-destructive, a waste of time and she knew that she was one hangover away from getting an official reprimand from Sebastian. Though she had been expecting one for at least three days, after she had left one of Royal family’s bodyguards bound and gagged to her bed for a few too many hours.

She was so fucking off her game, it was beginning to piss her off.  She wasn’t some two-bit whore that got caught up in delusional ideas about love or intimacy. Gritting her teeth, the whore shoved the wine goblet she had been staring at for the better part of an hour away from her with far too much aggression.  No, this wasn’t her. She was not this pathetic creature who spent her time mourning. It has always been an odd source of warped pride for her that she’d not shed a tear at her mother’s funeral. Though maybe that had nothing to do with her own strength, but rather extreme awareness that Sebastian had a vested interested in watching her reactions at the time since she’d been in the middle of her training and if there was something you never wanted to do it was wash out as an Inquisitor. Primarily not something you ever lived long enough to regret.

Clutching her sheer blue silk robe against her breasts, she mustered every bit of poise and grace into her movements as she slid off her chair and swept up the carpeted staircase as regally as she could manage considering the amount of wine in her. It would have been an easier task if she hadn’t been aware of how many pairs of eyes were fixed to her back, scrutinizing her every movement. This was going to be her last chance, she’d burned too many bridges to get any leeway from her handlers… ever again in her life time.

Narrowly avoiding an awkward stumble in the hall when she failed to avoid a drunken patron with her usual skill, Lyra practically flounced into her room, barely giving the abandoned note on her bed a second glance. She was already five hours behind schedule and her new resolve demanded that she act immediately. Flinging her wardrobe open, the blonde paused for a second before dismissing her rich silks and scandalous satin slips instantly, along with the dark leathers that made up her second uniform. Instead, she plucked a simple sky-blue dress from the back of wardrobe with a faint shake of her head. It was flattering, though more modest than current fashion trends in the capital currently were. But it was forgivable, she bought the dress two years before and only ever wore when she made ‘house calls’. Something, which her madam didn’t allow all that often. It took a great deal of money and trust for one of the Silk House’s girls to be allowed to entertain a customer away from the brothel’s relative safety.

Pulling on the dress, Lyra studied herself in the mirror. There was something that wasn’t quite right, she concluded before narrowing her eyes for a moment. Grabbing a ribbon from her dresser, she quickly tied her hair back. Better, she concluded once her wild curls were under control. She’d actually managed to look like someone that was somewhat respectable. Which was a great, all things considered. It wouldn’t do her any good if she looked like…say the kidnapper she was about to become. A grim smile decorated her face as she walked out of her room, silently pulling her door shut behind her. Honestly, she was actually beginning to feel a bit thrilled about her newest task. Not only because she would put herself back in the Lord Brighton’s and by extension the royal family’s good graces, but she’d get a small chance at feeling some piece of revenge. Well, Lyra had excepted that she was nothing more than a whore, a liar and the occasional spy, she’d never revelled in having customers who thought they owned her.

Stepping out into the sweltering afternoon heat, Lyra took a deep breath of the thick, salty air that hung heavy over the coastal city. Yes, this was just the type of mission that she needed. Oh if only Andre Befleur could have learnt to keep his stupid mouth shut or had enough self-preservation to not let anyone know that his opinion of King Fox II was anything less than one of the utmost respect. Not that she cared, she’d hated the arrogant pig from the first time he’d stared down at her with his flat, dead-fish eyes and clicked his fingers at her like she was some simpering slave. Now he was going to learn. Hopefully, the ass would learn his lesson properly once he lost yet another of his heirs.


	4. Nothing like kidnapping to lift your mood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am alive, barely. Life is hectic at the moment and writer's block is the worst. This is probably a bit of a dull update. Politics and noble houses ahoy.

The issue with the Befleur family is that they always thought they were more important than any other noble family. An amusing belief to be fair, Lyra thought, as she walked quietly down the sweltering street, trying to avoid the market crowds with their bright clothes and ceaseless laughter. After all, the Befleurs were not the richest family, that would be the Glennings or the Mercers, who constantly vied for that honour. Nor were they the oldest established house when one considered the numerous branches of the Bordelon family.

Still none of this had mattered to Andre, the current head of the family, who acted far too big for his britches. A trait his son, Pierre, had unfortunately shared. Though to be fair, all the strings in the Befleur family were actually pulled by Andre’s mother. The woman was a product of the Mercer family and had the heartless cunning that had made the family such a powerful force in the slave trade so many years before. However, what made her so impressive was the fact that old lady Befleur had managed to pull off quite the coup and had managed to marry her grandson off to Princess Miraena, the sister of the beloved King Fox I. 

Not that it had been a particularly happy marriage. If it had been, Lyra doubted that she would have wasted so much of her time entertaining Pierre. A man, who was the splitting image of his father and twice as insufferable. 

Wrinkling her nose in disgust as she recalled the man, Lyra found herself dimly wondering how such a pathetic creature like Pierre had even had the gall to summon his favourite whore to his family’s townhouse rather than having discreet visits at the brothel like most of the nobles did. Still it had made life easy for her. She’d saved a great deal of time just going from the son’s bed to his father’s or visa versa depending on the day.

However, she would be completely heartless to not have felt a bit sorry for Miraena. The Princess had tried so hard to be a good, dutiful wife. Had gone out of her way in fact to try and get her husband’s attention. Which, Lyra reflected, the green-eyed beauty should have gotten easily if her husband hadn’t been such a pervert, with a thing for blondes that looked just a bit too young. Still, Miraena had not wanted to give up Pierre at first, mainly because she had been so desperate for a child and the only way to have one of those was to keep a regular appoint with her husband and his twisted pleasures. 

Of course, then she had gotten a companion of her own. A smart, young man who was both a stable hand and yet another of the Inquisitor’s many birds. Lyra did miss Gavin, he’d been great fun during their short time together during training. He’d had beautiful blue eyes as she recalled. It was such a shame that he had been there during the fire that had started one night at the town house, which had lead to the deaths of both him, his lover and her wretched husband.

The tiny blonde sighed heavily as she turned up the wide, silent street that lead to the Befleur town house. The leafy boulevard that they had managed cultivate offered some relief from the sun, but Lyra felt herself tensing up as she saw the familiar blue and bronze crest hanging above a large iron gate. The galloping horse was not particularly impressive, but the guards next to the gate in their gleaming armour did a better job of showing how much affluence the Befleurs still claimed. They were also meant to keep people like her out, low class riffraff had no place beyond these gates. 

Except, of course, for Lord Befleur’s favourite piece of riffraff that he paid handsomely. Lyra bit back a smug smile as she bowed her head and slipped through the gates with the guards barely affording her a second glance. 

“Far too easy.” She muttered under her breath, as she carefully picked her way through the garden, avoiding detection as she made her way to the back garden. She really had lucked out with orders, which was a miracle. Following Niel’s departure, Runa’s rebellion and the King’s recent injury, being sent to deal with an idiotic noble was a blessing. It was also a sign that Sebastian did not expect her to succeed. 

Being held in such regard was a real kick in the face, but she would remedy the situation quickly. Lyra gave a cynical grin as she skirted around a flower bed and was greeted by the sight of Evander Befleur. The six-year-old was a familiar sight, his small build and raven black hair had always haunted the halls of the Befleurs’ town house. He’d always been a very quiet lurker, she mused as she crept closer, her smile growing warmer as the boy turned to look at her. His eyes were the most brilliant shade of blue, a colour that Lyra had only ever seen once in her life. And that had not been on the boy’s apparent father. 

“Evander.” She said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a hard-boiled candy. It was an old ritual between them, and the child didn’t hesitate for a second as he ran up to her. Taking the sweet, he gave her a shy smile.

“You have been gone for ages.” Evander muttered softly, his cheeks turning, ever so slightly pink as he spoke. Greetings had never been a part of their interactions. Lyra had never had the time to talk and the Befleur heir was a bit of a failure when it came to socializing. A trait that he shared with his distant cousin, Henri Mercer. 

“I know, love. I know. But don’t worry, I am here for you today.” The whore replied sweetly, returning the hug. “Just you.” She added, taking his hand in hers. 

It was far too easy, Lyra thought again, as she and Evander walked out of the servants’ entrance and disappeared into the bustling streets. Lord Andrea would soon learn of his heir’s capture and quickly reign himself in. The man’s world revolved around his grandson and he would do anything to keep him safe. 

“Lyra, where are we going?”

“Mmm? Oh, to meet your cousin, he’s waiting for you.”


End file.
